And 'Round it Turns
by Tupper
Summary: In war, the adopted motto is: "An eye for an eye." James doesn't believe that, and is questioned on just how far his morals will stretch when one heinous act deserves another...one-shot.


Hi, Tupper here. :) This is a one-shot; just a filler until I get the first chapter of my next work up—there's still a few kinks to work out, so I bring you this for the time being. It's a bit angst-y, and not at all up my alley, but I figured that I'd give it a go.

And Round it Turns

He sat wrapped in a coarse blanket that was more designed for warmth than comfort; it rubbed against any exposed skin until it was red and raw. But still he drew it close to him. They weren't allowed to use too many spells when not in battle—they didn't want to give their position away, and so they sat rubbing their hands together to keep warm, huddling close together. Fires sent up smoke and smoke sent up alarms. They couldn't risk being caught.

James snorted. The unit he'd been assigned to was famous. They were first on the line and last to leave. The death toll was atrocious. They were the fiercest of the fierce, the boldest of the bold; they were the cell with enough chutzpah to take on countless opponents and reduce them to soggy bastards. Whenever they were in front of the public eye, they held their heads high and marched on, the pride and joy of the U.F., or, the United Forces, a compilation of wizards from all over the world, united for a single cause. And what a glorious cause it was.

The corners of James' mouth turned into a smirk. He was stationed with _the elite, men you could expect to be in history books, but you wouldn't know it by looking at them._

What a miserable lot they were.

Other battalions got tea and edible food. That was because they were staying behind no man's land, nestled well inside the border of their assured territory, safe for the time being. That was, if James' squad did its job.

James shifted position. No matter where he rested, part of the trench jutted into his back. Yes, the trench.

Good Lord, he never thought he'd be in a _trench_, of all places. Muggle warfare was simply unheard of in civilized wizard battles. Of course, the current war was hardly what he could consider to be civilized. Children murdered in their mothers' arms. James' face darkened. He'd seen that, came into a house in no man's land. It was a farm. Pleasant. Clean. Nice. A mother sat on the floor with her eyes wide and empty, clutching a small girl in her arms. The child's face was buried in her mother's bosom. Neither was breathing. 

One would think that Aurors would be out on the front. Not so. Aurors were for the dainty work, the situations that called for finesse and a clever manipulation. James' squad was for the dirty work, soiling their hands with mud and blood.

James looked blankly at his hands. He hadn't gotten a good chance to wash them, yet. Red was still painted on there, a second skin that would never go away, no matter how much he washed them. The Death Eater had knocked his wand aside. He'd grabbed a knife meant for extreme measures. He'd plunged it into the enemy. James put his hands down.

He shouldn't be there, he knew that. The war was not supposed to be fought on a grand front, but rather stealthy and quietly. War never did what it was supposed to do. A _trench,_ damn it. A damn trench. Who the hell knew?

He'd gone only because it had been requested of him. Nineteen damn years old, and fighting with hardened men. Barely out of his awkward goosey-goosey years. 

He'd wanted to stay for the sake of Dumbledore. There was a whispering of an Order. What it was for, James could only guess, but he knew damn well that he should be there, helping Dumbledore and not freezing his ass off in a gelid trench. He should be there with Lily and Sirius and Remus, whose absences tore at him, but there was nothing he could do except his duty. 

Harleon Miles was lying near him. Harleon was half-Muggle and possessed a morbid sense of humor. Two days before James' group was scheduled to leave, he'd dragged them to a Muggle cinema to see a war movie. James had gone and snorted at the men freezing in the trenches. What a moron he'd been, and now he was there. In the movie, the men that died were given hero's remembrance. Like hell.

Harleon Miles was lying near James, with a coarse blanket covering his still body. 

A hero's grave. Like hell.

James wasn't quite sure what to think then, so he thought nothing. Other men around him, they had fear permanently etched onto their faces, the faces that the public never saw. Others had stony faces, rock-hard and stoic, keeping their eyes on their hands as James had done. Still others had haunted, sunken eyes leaning into future madness. The teenager was quite sure that if they survived the war, those men would never again do anything. James' face was carefully expressionless. It was an art he had long since perfected. He avoided considering his own thoughts.

"You're walkin' the fine line, there," said a voice.

James looked up. He knew who it was but he looked up anyway, and saw Ford Knox easing himself to lean against the trench wall a few feet away. Knox was a grizzled old American soldier, a sergeant in the United Forces, with a gruff voice and crew cut that was mostly gray. 

"The fine line between fear and insanity, eh?" he continued. "Walkin' that tightrope and losing your balance. How will you fall? Crazy or coward, neither choice looking too appetizing, eh?" He closed his eyes briefly. "But in the long run, those're about the only options you've got."

James didn't say anything. Knox had that effect on people, forcing them to look inward when they'd rather not see anything at all, just hide behind a pretty shield and close their eyes and make it stop it stop it make it stop

"Me," said Knox, with a small, humorless laugh, "I've been walkin' that tightrope for years. Years an' years an' years. I'll fall off soon, I know that. But they'll catch me and pull me back up, they don't let you go until they've sucked everything they can from you, until you can barely crap. That's war, kid."

"I know."

"I'll bet you do. You're a sharp one, stick out like a sore thumb from this dull lot. Can see it a mile away."

"Thanks."

"It's not a compliment. Sharp ones blunt faster." 

James blinked. He was right, of course. A corner of his lips tugged. "You're very reassuring," he said dryly, the sarcasm, for one brief moment, returning him to the old James Potter.

"War's not s'posed to be reassuring," Knox said breezily, glancing at the prone form of Harleon. "Stuff of nightmares."

He glanced at the setting sun, a great bloody egg nestled in among angry red tendrils of clouds. "They say that the sunset's always prettier when the sky's painted with the blood of men." James smirked bitterly, having thought the same thing before. "Dusk's the funeral, the moon's the tombstone." He gave James a piercing look. "But one less joining the graveyard of stars tonight, eh?"

James knew what he was talking about and stubbornly refused to be sorry. The Death Eater, the one whose blood now stained his hands, had not died when James had struck him with the knife. He'd lain there, gasping; clutching his shoulder right above his heart. James had looked straight into the eyes of Daniel Vargas. From a leader of an underground cult to a lowly Death Eater. James had looked at his knife, contemplating, and then thrust the knife into the thrush and walked away.

He knew now why Knox had sat down to talk to him. Knox was someone you could never figure out. James had never been sure if the sergeant disapproved of his decision, but he had a good idea now.

Knox looked over and saw that James was fully aware of the innuendo. 

"You should have killed him," he said simply.

"I know."

"On the front line there's barely enough room for breathing, let alone mercy."

"I know."

"An eye for an eye, Potter."

"Sure."

Knox frowned. The kid wasn't getting it. "War, kid. You don't spare. You do what your commanding officer tells you to. You riddle it with morals, you dig your own grave. Guys like you? You fall off the tightrope first. You go crazy 'cause everything's muddled and you don't know what to believe."

"I know," James said quietly.

"One killing deserves another."

"Maybe."

"An eye for an eye."

"Are all Americans like you?"

Knox laughed. "No. That's why I'm so valuable."

James frowned, annoyed at the laughter. "It wasn't supposed to be funny. Or a compliment."

"I know," grinned the sergeant. "It was supposed to be biting, even cruel. S'posed to scathe me, eh?" He laughed again. "Guys like me, we take 'em as compliments."

"Noble."

"Realistic, kid. We do what we gotta do. You have to learn that, Potter, or else you're gonna fry." Knox wasn't laughing anymore, but looking instead at Harleon Miles. James refused to follow his gaze.

The sergeant considered him for a moment and then shrugged. "B'lieve it or not, I didn't come over to give you a pep talk. You've been sent for."

James looked up. "What?" You couldn't just pull someone out of the squad.

"Special request of Albus Dumbledore. Someone up there likes you, kid."

James laughed, resting his head back against the trench. The solid laughter startled the other soldiers, and they arched eyebrows. 

_There goes another one, they collectively thought._

James brought his head back down, still chuckling. "Hardly a reprieve," he said. "If anything, I'll be in deeper crap. It's going to be hell."

"I know that," Knox said simply. "You think I'm out of the loop? I know what Dumbledore's planning, and frankly I don't think you're going to cut it."

"No, you don't," James said, getting up and shrugging the blanket off. "That's exactly why I'm going to cut it." He walked out from the wall of the trench to gather his precious few belongings; a picture of Lily, a small notebook, and another, little black book that was open to Deuteronomy. Knox watched him as the teenager got up and walked away, his face unreadable.

Very short, I realize. I guess the whole trench thing wouldn't be how someone would normally think of wizards fighting a war, but you never know. Anyway, I'll be posting the first chapter of my next story, which will be about three or four chapters long and very light-hearted. I seem to be slightly more adept at writing domestic stuff, and I'm in the mood for that anyway. It'll star James and Sirius. Not slash. 

Review if you like.


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